


Morning After

by Unsentimentalf



Series: Black Hole [5]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You were more obliging yesterday."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Manhunt.

When he woke, he wanted cocaine.

It was not an addiction. Most certainly not a dependency. Eight weeks and he'd not acted on desire. Just a psychological habit, to wake this way, every morning. Like all habits, it could be broken.

Four seconds from waking; he slipped almost without conscious thought into the mental routine he'd chosen to replace thoughts of fire through his veins.

 _Work._ Nothing important- three cases, all trivial.  
 _John._ Was not here. Would be back later. There was a problem, there, important but not urgent. He would apply full concentration to it later.  
 _Time._ Correlate street noise with light. Nine am, Sunday. He'd slept longer and better than normal.  
 _Phone._ In the pocket of his dressing gown. He fished it out. No texts. A dozen emails, only one of interest. Barts had replied.

Of course. Detective Inspector Lestrade was sleeping in his bed. Sex. Good. He flicked through the email attachments, noted all as expected. Padded out to the bathroom, then the kitchen for a glass of water, finally untangled the handcuffs from the fireplace and opened his bedroom door.

From the state of the bedclothes Lestrade had woken once already, was now napping, asleep but not soundly so, naked under the duvet. He was curled up on his left side, right arm stretched over the cover, nail marks red across the shoulder. Wrist not close enough to the bedstead.

Sherlock headed down to the hall. Gladstone's puppy lead was still hanging up; John had taken the larger one. It would do; Sherlock doubted that it would take the full weight of a middle-aged man, but it would hold against a fair amount of random thrashing. He attached one end of the lead to one cuff, the other end to the bedstead above Lestrade's head. Slipped his dressing gown off. This would require co-ordination. He focussed his arousal, reached a state of physical and mental readiness.

Go. Twitch the duvet away, land heavily, precisely, on Lestrade's back, pushing him hard into the mattress, face down. Right hand closes the cuff around the man's wrist. Left hand pins the left wrist down. Legs twist against Lestrade's, pushing them apart, down into the bed. Right hand, now free, can push between the man's legs, guide his cock. And thrust, even as Lestrade bucks and fights under him, making him miss. Again. Skids across, away. Again, while his teeth close across the left shoulder, bite hard, release. Again, and this time his cock has purchase, goes in, not across. Again, an inch, his teeth closing on neck this time. Again.

Lestrade was swearing viciously, which was right, but Sherlock could feel the man's heart pounding, unexpectedly hard. Even more unexpected, the gasped "No!". Disappointed, he stopped.

The man underneath him kept fighting for several seconds, pulling away from Sherlock's cock, tugging madly on the handcuffs, before stopping as suddenly as Sherlock had done. Sherlock nearly cursed in realisation. Stupid mistake. He'd overestimated the man's powers of perception. And now he ached for it as badly as for the cocaine.

"Sherlock." Lestrade gasped for breath. "Fuck's sake Sherlock. You can't just..." He let his breathing slow a little. When he spoke again it was more considered. "You can't jump me when I'm asleep, Sherlock. I didn't know it was you. There are going to be serious injuries, if you do that again and they aren't all going to be mine. Just wake me first, OK?"

He twisted over onto his back, still tugging at the cuff. "But you stopped."

Sherlock didn't bother replying to that. Of course he'd stopped. The consequences of not stopping would have been considerably more significant than the pleasure obtained from continuing.

"You're awake now," he pointed out. Just in case Lestrade was stupid enough not to have noticed. The man was wet with sweat; would be slippery. That was enticing. But Lestrade wasn't hard; not surprising. That much adrenaline in his system would have diverted the body's resources from inessentials, like sexual arousal.

"I'll make coffee," Sherlock offered. That might make Lestrade more inclined to be co-operative. And he would get nothing until that adrenaline had dispersed; he might as well be in the kitchen, a small distraction.

Lestrade looked dubious. "You could undo this," he lifted the handcuffed wrist. "And then I could make coffee. I'm not sure I trust yours."

"Coffee is simple." He liked the handcuff as it was. Sherlock stood up, and Lestrade's eyes ran slowly, pleasingly, pleased, down his body. It shouldn't be difficult to resume sexual activity.

Except that Lestrade's eyes had stopped around his crotch, and Lestrade was frowning, coming oh so slowly to the conclusion that something was wrong. Sherlock had that one covered. He picked up his phone, pulled up the email from Barts, tossed it to the other man who caught it automatically, still puzzled, not yet at the inevitable conclusion. How could a brain work that badly?

"Read that. Before you start shouting." And he headed out to the kitchen.

Four minutes for the kettle to boil. Coffee, milk. No sound from the bedroom, which was probably good. He carried the mugs back, stopped at the door. Oh dear. Lestrade was sitting up on the bed, retrieved duvet wrapped around his lower body, and that expression had to mean something bad. Maybe Lestrade hadn't understood the email.

"Blood test results," he explained. "Yours was A, mine B. If you read them carefully..."

"I can see that." Lestrade's voice was fiercely antagonistic. "I haven't had a blood sample taken for years. Where did they get that one, Sherlock?"

Wasn't that obvious? "I took one last night. You barely woke; I'm not surprised that you don't remember."

That didn't seem to improve the other man's mood. He cast around for possible meanings behind the question. "I keep a supply of sterilised hypodermics. There was no risk whatsoever."

"No risk. Right. And then you sent it off to be tested for what? Anything you felt curious about?" Lestrade hadn't softened.

"Any diseases that could be transmitted sexually. I have no interest in anything else."

"It didn't occur to you that this was the sort of thing that you damn well ask about first?"

This was tiresome. "It's data. I needed it, so I collected it. You needed it too. I've provided it. I could hardly have been more obliging."

He held out the coffee mug. Lestrade ignored it, eyes still on his face.

"And when you got your data, you unilaterally decide that you can screw me bareback, just like that. You weren't even going to mention it, were you? Just jump me from behind and do it? God, I don't know why I'm bothering asking. You were bloody well in there already."

"Given that neither of us is carrying anything transmissible, what would be the point of wearing a condom? It wasn't something that required discussion." Sherlock was getting distinctly irritated. Lestrade was not meant to be labile like this over irrationalities.

The man on the bed lifted his wrist. "If you don't mind." Sarcasm heavy in his voice.

Sherlock did mind. Lestrade was about to walk out on him again, over nothing remotely significant. Not only did he want sex again, he also didn't want the other man aggrieved. There had been that threat to involve John. If Lestrade left, Sherlock would have to chase him down again. Better to keep him here, for the moment, until sense prevailed.

"Drink your coffee, and explain to me why you're angry." Lestrade was angry because he was an idiot. People liked to articulate what they thought of as their reasons, though. It might calm the man to do so.

Or maybe not. "Don't fucking patronise me, Holmes. Since when did you ever need anything explained? Just undo the damn cuff."

"No." Sherlock put down both mugs on the floor, leaned forward to scoop up his dropped phone. "Not until you're rational."

He could see Lestrade's thoughts in succession. Outrage. Realisation of his position. Caution, with a hint of fear. Consideration. That was better. The man was far less annoying when thinking moderately clearly.

"What do you consider rational?"

Good question, Inspector. Sherlock was prepared, in the circumstances, to admit his own mistake.

"You are annoyed about the wrong thing. The blood tests were both harmless and necessary."

"So what should I be annoyed about? This?" Lestrade was running his free hand over the cuff, back up to the dog lead. Sherlock was still not sure that it would hold against a definite effort to break it.

"I miscalculated the amount of time that your sleep-induced state of confusion would last. As a result you endured a longer and more unpleasant experience than I had anticipated."

"Is that an apology?"

"If you feel you need one, yes."

Pause. "OK. Apology accepted. Key, please."

It was fortunate for Lestrade that he never played poker for significant stakes. His temper wasn't even close to hidden well. Sherlock didn't move.

Both hands around the handcuffs and Lestrade pulled, hard as he could. "Enough of this crap, Sherlock! Not even you can really believe that you can actually get away with chaining someone to a bed until they let you fuck them!" Another hard yank. The lead was holding, so far. "You're bloody insane!"

Sherlock was startled by this interpretation of his actions. "Only until you calm down and see reason. Equivalent to restraint during a period of temporary insanity."

"So you're not after sex at all?" Lestrade was glaring at his erection. What did the man expect? He knew Sherlock's preferences, and yet he was fighting that chain as if he _wanted_ Sherlock's full attention.

"Once you've regained your equanimity, you'll be amenable. No compulsion required." A thought. "Sex now if you like, since you're aroused, but the cuff stays on."

It wasn't working. Lestrade was still furious and tense and definitely worried. Sherlock wondered how best to convince him that being naked and restrained didn't necessarily imply any degree of sexual coercion. He could give the man his clothes back, he supposed, although he preferred the view without them, and it seemed a pity to waste that flush across the neck, the pull of the duvet closer around the waist.

This was easier yesterday. Skin to skin contact, he recalled, and moved. Picked up both mugs of coffee, climbed onto the bed, sat close enough to touch, shoulder against shoulder, with his back up against the headboard,

"Coffee." He sipped his own, rested the second mug on the duvet over Lestrade's leg, let go.

A hiss as Lestrade caught the mug before it tipped over. "I ought to just dump this over your crotch."

He'd thought that unlikely. Not impossible, though. The liquid was some way below boiling; he could have got to the kitchen and a supply of cold water before serious scalding occurred.

He liked the feel of the man's fleshy arm, pushing against his. Lestrade hadn't pulled away, just downed the hot drink in four swift gulps, turned the plain white mug over in his hands.

"How does John do it?"

"Live here?" Sherlock wondered what sort of answer was required. "He doesn't expect unnecessary social conventions to be adhered to."

Lestrade sighed. "I thought I was pretty flexible that way, myself. But I hadn't realised just what you considered an unnecessary social convention. Like medical privacy. Like consent for risk taking. Like the right to walk away from an argument. Do you chain him up if he disagrees with you, too?"

Sherlock found his breath catching at the idea. Lestrade laughed bitterly. "He really needs to keep away from you. God knows, we both do. I thought this might be possible, but it isn't. You're not sane enough."

An odd thing to say. "My sanity isn't in question."

"So take off the handcuff, Sherlock. Because right now it doesn't seem that way to me."

It did seem that the cuff was presenting a formidable obstacle to reconciliation. Maybe it had been a mistake. Sherlock slid off the bed, went to fetch the key. Stood in front of the bed, unusually irresolute.

"Will you stay without it?"

"Give me the key."

Lestrade was annoyed. Lestrade was aroused. Lestrade wanted him. Lestrade wanted nothing to do with him. Sherlock hated it when people disintegrated into a mass of contradiction; it made their behaviour very difficult to predict.

"I would prefer it if you didn't leave." He held out the key.

Lestrade took it carefully, unlocked the cuff with steady hands. Dropped it with a long breath of relief. "God, Sherlock. You're absolutely terrifying, you know that?"

"Not intentionally."

"It would be much less scary if you were doing it on purpose."

Sherlock considered that for a second. "I possibly failed to entirely take into account the fact that my motives are not as transparent to you as yours are to me."

"Jesus." Lestrade's voice was still shaky. "Under that insult that's the second apology in five minutes. You do remember that I'm just the casual shag, don't you?"

That was an opening. "I thought that you might have forgotten why you were here." He drained his mug, dropped it, rolled onto the bed, sprawling on his back in front of Lestrade, hip against duvet-covered thigh.

Lestrade's breathing was faster. "I should just go home."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "You don't want to be at home." He arched his back, waiting for the touch.

Which came, sliding across his stomach, around his hipbone. He considered his unexpectedly strong feeling of pleasure. Maybe it was anticipation, because this-merely fingers over skin- must be insufficient to account for it fully. Anticipation. In a moment he would persuade Lestrade into letting him come hard and fast and bruising. Best to let the man do what he wanted first though, and what he wanted was to stroke ...

"I had a cat like you, once." The apology seemed to have shifted the mood from annoyance to desire. That had been the intention.

"How like me?" He was amusing himself, predicting where the hands would go. It was too easy; he tried subtly influencing the movement without letting Lestrade become aware. Something challenging; left ankle in under 20 seconds.

"She had no time for people except when she wanted food or a caress."

"Was it a successful strategy?"

"Always." Lestrade was leaning over him now, running both hands down his left calf. Light fingers encircled the ankle and Sherlock smiled. Twelve seconds.

"But then she had soft fur and she couldn't talk."

"You'd prefer me furred and voiceless?"

"God, yes!"

Sherlock tucked that one away for further consideration. He was becoming distracted; the time had definitely arrived for some direct genital contact and Lestrade's hands were not co-operating; were going anywhere but. Maybe he should just tell the man what to do. Maybe that wouldn't work.

He closed his eyes again. Thought of something else desirable. "If yesterday's bruising would make penetration excessively uncomfortable, oral sex is an acceptable alternative."

And opened them. "What? What's wrong with that?"

Lestrade was laughing at him.

"It's normally considered polite to wait until it's offered, Sherlock. Not everyone enjoys doing it."

"Do you?"

"Right now," hands slid over his hips again, skidded away from his aching cock. "I don't feel inclined to put myself out for your pleasure, no."

That was unfortunate. "You were more obliging yesterday."

"Mmm." Lestrade was grinning at him now. "It appears that selfishness is a sexually transmitted disease."

Sherlock was being manipulated. He didn't much like the sensation. A flash of memory of the man's damn drugs bust.

"I could reciprocate." That appealed, he could tell. But Lestrade shook his head. "I have a moral objection to paying for it, regardless of currency."

"So what?" The apology had been a mistake, clear now. The balance of power had shifted then, never shifted back. Good reason to never apologise.

"Come on, Sherlock. You're the genius." Nails scraped gently up his inner thigh.

Fine. Lestrade wanted something before he'd perform. Not simply sexual gratification; he'd turned that down. Probably not breakfast, or he'd have mentioned it. Praise? Not DI Lestrade; he'd never operated on flattery, unlike some of his colleagues. He'd had coffee. What else did people want from their sexual partners? Tokens of affection? Sherlock thought not. Lestrade had known him for a very long time, was not prone to delusions.

Selfishness, the man had said. Oh, for heaven's sake! He glared at Lestrade. "You're trying to instruct me in manners!"

"Someone has to." Pressure of fingers down his chestbone, hands split apart to cover his hard nipples. Want. Sex. Now. his body insisted.

"Nobody _has_ to, evidently."

"All right then, someone ought to. There's only so far you can go on sheer sexual magnetism, Sherlock. At some point you've got to put some effort in."

He didn't want to exert himself. Not for longer than it would take to drag the annoying man onto his back and reach a fast and ungentle orgasm inside him. Everything else, Lestrade could do. Was, yesterday's evidence showed, good at it.

"I go on top," he pointed out, indignant. Because that was on his agenda anyway.

"So that's ninety seconds covered. What about the rest?"

Lestrade was enjoying this. Which suggested that he was confident of achieving his objectives. Which, in turn, suggested that he wasn't going to back down easily. Sherlock compared the merits of indolence and sex, decided very quickly that, this morning at least, sex won.

He pulled himself up, settled with one knee either side of duvet-covered thighs, looking down on Lestrade's upturned face as the man supported himself with his back against the bedstead.

"How much longer than ninety seconds?"

Lestrade's hands had curled around his hips. "When does Speedy's stop serving breakfast?"

"Noon. Over ambitious." He dipped his head to kiss the other man, found himself kissed fiercely in response. He wasn't going to have to do much, it seemed. Good. Fingers slid up his spine, down again. His own hands were wrapped around the bedstead, elbows resting on Lestrade's shoulders.

He liked the kiss. He liked the way his cock was pressed up against the top of the duvet, against Lestrade's stomach. He liked the way Lestrade's fingers were lingering right at the base of his spine.

The contact of lips and fingertips was broken. "Your move again."

Cocaine was never this much trouble.

"Yesterday," he said, annoyed, "you decided that you were going to fully express your feelings for me. More of that."

"Most of my feelings for you right now consist of varying degrees of exasperation, Sherlock. You're getting them all, believe me."

So he was going to have to do some work. Very well then. Hands tight on Lestrade's shoulders pulled the man down onto the bed, face up. The duvet was kicked to the floor as he trapped Lestrade's wrists over the man's head under one hand. Smiled, briefly, at the unconcealed anticipation in the face underneath him, then dipped his head.

It was something like music. Something like fighting. Something like work, but the sensation was nothing like any of those. He knew where the nerve endings ran. He could read everything that the man beneath him was feeling. Pain, because he enjoyed the way the man jerked as his teeth nipped and nails scratched, and pleasure, because he didn't forget what they were about here. He kept Lestrade on the point of protest, on the point of orgasm, for several minutes longer than he'd expected, but in the end the man swore at him.

"Fuck, Sherlock. Enough!"

"Still 45 minutes to midday."

"Enough."

"Just another 90 seconds, then?"

"God, yes!"

He slid a tight hand round the man's cock, brought him the last few seconds to orgasm. Lestrade was still twitching and panting as Sherlock pushed hard and forceful into the man's carefully untouched arse. Gasps from below him; more pain, more bruising, but no denial. Good. Better than good; release hit him and he dropped his head one last time, teeth against throat, panting into the stubbly neck. Yes. Satisfactory.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Lestrade had left his towel, and his clothes on the bed. He'd got to the shower first, somehow; when Sherlock followed him into the bathroom he had wondered if the man was going to join him under the showerhead. But it was an elderly heating system and joint showers always tended to involve getting bits of you alternately chilled and scorched, so he wasn't surprised when Sherlock merely paced naked and impatient in the tiny room, waiting for him to finish. He'd taken his time; he was sore and the hot water felt good.

He walked, somewhat dripping, into the living room and got hit by a friendly greeting from a halfgrown bulldog. "Get down!" he hissed, pushing the animal's blunt claws away from his bare legs. John was back. Not in the living room; for a minute Lestrade hoped that he was upstairs, but no, he was standing in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom. Between Lestrade and his clothes.

"John," he said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Inspector." John's voice was chilly. He had been disentangling the lead from the handcuffs; now he held the latter out. "Are these yours?"

No room for denials. "Yes." He caught the fast toss awkwardly, pushed off an excited Gladstone again.

John was smoothing out the leather dog lead. "I put up with a great deal in this house." Voice tight with anger and distress. "But I don't think that I should have to tolerate having my belongings used as sex toys in my absence."

Damn Sherlock. Of course it had been John's. "Talk to your flatmate. That wasn't my doing." He wished desperately for something to cover his nakedness. The shower was still going behind him. Sherlock must know John was home. Was avoiding this.

"I'm talking to you." John hadn't once glanced anywhere but his face. "This is not acceptable."

This wasn't just about the dog lead. Lestrade nearly snapped "this was all your idea" at the man, but it wouldn't have helped.

"Talk to Sherlock," he said again. "I'm just the casual shag. And my clothes are in there."

John's look was venom. "Casual, fuck. You've been after this all along. Hint of a chance, you're over here. Pathetic."

That wasn't exactly how he recalled the events of the previous day. Lestrade was starting to get annoyed. "Far as I understood it, Sherlock's single. Are you telling me otherwise?"  
Put up or shut up, Doctor.

"He's going to stay that way. Stop fantasising. He's not going to become your boyfriend, Lestrade. Whatever you let him do to you." Eyes dropped briefly, deliberately to the scratches across his shoulders, the livid marks on his neck.

That was enough. He pushed his way past John into the bedroom, closed the door firmly, dried himself with hard, furious application of the towel and pulled his clothes on. John bloody Watson, with his straight superiority complex and his incomprehensible hold on Sherlock's affections, was home, and Lestrade would be lucky to have Sherlock even notice that he'd walked out of the door.

There were voices from the other room; he resisted the temptation to listen. He doubted that he'd hear anything but Watson insulting him and Holmes not dissenting. He picked up his few belongings, shoved the handcuffs deep in his coat pocket and opened the door.

Sherlock was dressed, wrapped in his long coat, standing by the stairs. He flashed a quick smile at Lestrade. John was in the armchair, glowering.

"Breakfast. Will you join us, John?"

"No." With not the slightest hint of grace.

"Inspector?" Sherlock gestured down the stairs. "You're paying."

"Sixteen seventy, remember." If he had to be a pawn in Sherlock's games, he'd not be a passive one.

Sherlock looked slightly helpless. "John, have you any money?"

There was a sigh from the armchair, and a wallet was tossed at Lestrade, with all the disdain that the handcuffs had been. God knows how John imagined the debt had been incurred; Lestrade wished he hadn't mentioned it.

Still, nothing to be done but extract the twenty, dig out change from his own. "Thanks," he said, somewhere between them, tried to hand the leather wallet back. When John didn't respond he had to drop it on the arm of the chair.

"Now." Sherlock was impatient. Lestrade couldn't think of an appropriate exit line, so he just followed Sherlock down the stairs.

Breakfast was pretty good. Sherlock seemed pleased with himself, told anecdotes, mainly at the expense of the police, sometimes Lestrade himself. Lestrade took his usual view, which was that you could learn a lot from Sherlock Holmes' methods but not if you were too busy taking offence. Nothing intimate, nothing flirtatious, nothing warm. Just breakfast with Holmes. He'd done it before, on cases. He'd do it again. And in a few minutes Sherlock would return to his jealous beloved and Lestrade would just go home.

"He'll get used to the idea."

"What?" Lestrade put his fork down, looked across at Sherlock.

"John. "

"Get used to what idea?" Lestrade wanted to be sure that they were both on the same wavelength here. Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look.

"Seriously, Sherlock, is there going to be something to get used to?"

Sharp eyes flicked up at him again, down to the food. "Yes."

His stomach turned over. "Why?"

Sherlock leaned back, looked at him properly. "Because, occasionally, I need a substitute for John bloody Watson, and you will do fine."

Cold down his spine, because those terms hadn't been enough, still weren't. "And?"

"Fishing for compliments?"

"Fuck compliments, Sherlock. We went through all this yesterday."

"No need to do it today."

He shook his head. "Look. I need to know where I stand."

"You do." Sherlock's voice was unemotional. "You'd like somewhere better, and you're frightened of somewhere worse, but you know."

He did, he supposed. Not in John Watson's armchair, but not altogether out in the cold.

"All right." He managed a smile back at Sherlock. "Next time you get desperate I look forward to a polite invitation, taxi fare included."

A small snort of ridicule. That would do fine. He finished his cooling coffee. "I've got to get some washing done. Say goodbye to John for me."

"Yes."

He didn't look back at the figure still sitting in the window of the cafe, or up at the 221B windows. He'd see both of them again, soon enough. Right now it was time to be on his own for a bit. Time to think.


End file.
